


New and Old

by hailtotheheroes



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Amnesia, Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-06 12:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18388325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailtotheheroes/pseuds/hailtotheheroes
Summary: One, two, three millennia spent in the light, together and boundless. And then suddenly, abruptly, there is dark. And then nothing. Then a faint smell of olives and figs and suddenly flesh and blood and bone; a new life, now utterly alone, missing and lacking, and a harrowing question of what, burning brighter than a thousand brilliant stars.-Achilles, a star quarterback, comes face to face with Patroclus in the middle of a game. He remembers an old life, one long past and filled with love, but Patroclus does not.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So yeah, here's a High School AU with reincarnation. Except to make it slightly angstier, Patroclus remembers nothing and Achilles has to pine and pine :) Enjoy!

_One, two, three millennia spent in the light, together and boundless. And then suddenly, abruptly, there is dark. And then nothing. Then a faint smell of olives and figs and suddenly flesh and blood and bone; a new life, now utterly alone, missing and lacking, and a harrowing question of what, burning brighter than a thousand brilliant stars._

He is missing something. His whole life he has felt like it, as though there is something fundamental, monumental, crucial missing; like a limb has vanished, been torn away from him, left him bleeding. He has had a good life, he reckons. He’s never had pain, loss, lack or normalcy; a life led in balance, in the light, shining and occasionally burning, a brimming well of potential and hunger and drive. Success has been natural, failure few but easily borne, his life filled with love and joy and all things bright that fill a person. And yet he has never felt true, he has never felt whole. Nothing has ever been complete. There has always been something missing, something driving him to the very edge, something pushing and pulling him in all the wrong directions, and he has never known what.

Sometimes it is terrifying. It is as though there is something, someone in him, other than himself, screaming to be let out. As if he could disappear into thin air, vanish and never be found again; as though he was only ever a fleck of dust, a gust of wind, a single breath. And just when he feels like he is about to burn out he is terrified of the thought all at once, of never finding that missing part ever again, of never knowing, never seeing, never holding that atrocious frontier that both grounds and destroys him. He cannot break free, yet at the same time he doesn’t wish to, either.

The first time he’d felt the emptiness he’d been but a child, sitting on freshly cut green grass, watching as his mother picked figs off a tree. And suddenly he’d been hit with an incredible sadness that he could never have fathomed, a child not even of school age; an all-consuming sadness akin to grief but not quite, made up of yearning and wishing. He’d been confused, then, and started silently to cry, not able to contain himself or understand, not sure whether why cared. Then his mother had found him and it was over all at once, as though the wave had never come over him, as though he’d never felt the weight of a thousand years on his shoulders. He’d forgotten.

And yet again and again it had occurred, relentless and profound, getting only more frequent. He’d never understood what it was, especially not in his early years, yet gradually he’d started questioning and wondering and feeling with ever more growing intensity that he might have -must have- lost something of incredible importance, a thing just barely out of his reach now, even if he couldn’t understand. Life had been easy to lead then, as it always had been, but the question had remained, the longing had strengthened and gained ground and Achilles had let it, if only for the pleasure of its ancient comfort.

Now, Achilles had that feeling again; or at least something similar, something more sinister. He was about to get on the field for the first game of his senior season, in the same role he’d always been in: the golden boy, the prince, the quarterback. This was supposed to be his moment. His mother was in the bleachers waiting for him, his whole senior class screaming his name - _Achilles, Achilles, Achilles_ \- in an oddly comforting trance as they always did, as was natural, and his friends had already walked on the field where they must have assembled -habitually really- as though they were not boys in a game but men at war. This was his time. This wasn’t the day to have that feeling again, to sit down and ponder it, to let it break him down into a crying, shivering creature barely registering thought and feeling. But it was there and he couldn’t banish it. It was as though there was something positively feral in his head, clawing and screaming and fighting to be let _out, out, out_ , immediately and completely, whether Achilles liked it or not. 

He steadied himself. _You’re Achilles Pelides_ , he thought, _you’re not going to let this happen now_. And he got himself on the field.

The effect was immediate. The crowd roared with glee and triumph almost the moment a strand of golden hair shone through the gates; the stadium was nearly ablaze with cheers the moment his first step landed on the familiar grass, getting all the more intense as his arm came up instinctively, tightly fisted, in a show of natural power and confidence. He was alright. He was himself.

He could almost taste his own bitterness even as the game started. One slap came on his shoulder, then another, from friends he’d known for years. Familiar, safe, reassuring. And then the game started and instinct entirely took over, even though Achilles was more than aware that every flash of color had sharpened, every change of sight hastened, every breath become a chore, as he counted silently in his head the way he would during every game. He scored once, twice. The other team was not giving them an easy fight and neither was his own mind.

And then, all at once, it happened. He remembered, later when he was back in control of himself and his soul, somebody shouting a name in the distance.

“Menoitides,” they said, “Menoitides is getting on the field!”

The sounds, the colors, his breathing and sweating intensified all at once, as though he was a man possessed. There was something stuck in his throat, unyielding, something choking him and shaking him at the same time, and he realized he was shivering, his eyes watering, on the verge of overflowing. The new game was about to begin.

He got in position and the game continued, as it would, while he fought himself. The stadium was roaring not for one but two now, him and the new player, the one they’d called for earlier as though reciting and offering a prayer. _Where is he,_ he thought, _where is he where is he where is he?_

And all at once it happened, he saw him. An explosion, perhaps, or something as easy as an exhalation of breath. And there he was, there he was, there he was. Something, everything, audibly snapped into place, became whole, a web, a tree, a living, breathing body, tangible enough to touch. The air was thicker, his eyes were wider, his hands were steadier. There he was, there he was, in glory and lament and euphoria, there he was.

He thought he was choking. Everything was swimming, the unforgivingly bright lights dimming, as though he’d gotten so drunk he’d forgotten himself. And in the intoxication, he had the good sense to stop, stare, let go of himself and the game, as he watched. Something tore out of him, a sob full of yearning and want and a searing misery, as he shouted the one thing that finally completed him and he was suddenly free and floating all at once.

“Patroclus!” he shouted, and once more in his head it echoed, _Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus_ , syllable by syllable, filling his head and drowning everything else out, him and life and destiny. Only Patroclus, Patroclus right before him now, in reach, real and tangible and alive and well, after three millennia and an eternity of light and a sudden invasion by the dark. There he was.

And Patroclus turned to him in what was the greatest moment Achilles had ever experienced. Brown met blue, followed by a widening of eyes, a flash of blinding light, and suddenly Achilles knew, he knew; of a life long-gone, of a love that was endless and timeless and boundless, of a promise and a destiny and of anguish. And the moment it all made sense he was paralyzed, utterly immobilized, only staring, unable to say anything. It felt eternal, that moment, until he finally gathered the ability to reach a hand out, to aim to touch, to aim to grasp him; to have Patroclus, his everything, his missing self.

And all at once it came crashing down. There was no warning, there was no divine intuition, there was no loud sound. All Achilles did was blink and in the next moment of sight he saw a body throw Patroclus’ on the ground, and another and another and another, until he could no longer see him. The spell was broken, the spirit had deserted him, the glory had ceased to be all in that second. The crowd roared louder than they ever had that night, laced with some horrified screams of “Menoitides!” that he heard better than all the intangible praise, better than his own name _, Achilles, Achilles, Achilles._

And then he was falling, losing, collapsing before he felt why and when. His outstretched hand dropped to his side, the feral instinct that had torn him apart quieted and vanished, and the last thing he heard was more terrified screams, now for himself.


	2. Hector

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy, so, hi again! The chapter name is sort of a spoiler I'm afraid. I do hope you enjoy it, though? I promise it'll get better once the prologue portion is through. That should be like next chapter? Probably. Hopefully.
> 
> Have fun :)

Achilles Pelides had a decent life, Odysseus reckoned. Born the son of an ambitious litigator and caring doctor, he’d grown up with substantial love, attention and wealth. The first time Odysseus and he had met had been in first grade, when Achilles had hurled an elastic ball right at Odysseus’ head. Back then Odysseus hadn’t yet remembered; neither what they had been nor what they had done. Things had been easier. Friendship had tentatively blossomed between two unlikely children, one golden and bubbly and the other dull and grounded. It had followed them through adolescence, through school and sports, through joint and individual struggles, and most importantly through Odysseus’ gradual and final remembrance of the unfathomable past.

Some days, occasionally, he’d wondered whether he was crazy. Nobody had written their tragedies, nobody had sung for their victories; nobody, not even Achilles, had remembered them. Troy remained a blank page in history, a mistake, one still waiting to be discovered and unearthed in the heart of Gallipoli, now a continent away from where they lived. It was absurd, it was impossible, outrageous. But it was also real. He hadn’t been sure until one night Thetis had appeared to him in all her cold and frozen and timeless glory, demanding in her albeit diminished divinity that he take care of her son in the mortal world, as a mortal should. He hadn’t understood then what he did now: that Achilles wasn’t godly anymore, that he was for the first time a puny, vulnerable, beatable mortal, not born of a goddess but from the womb of a woman made of clay, just like the rest of them. They were the same, now. And yet not.

Still, Odysseus watched him. He knew Achilles’ godly gravity, his otherworldly emotional weight, his golden charm. He couldn’t help but feel Achilles had retained his divinity if only a little bit, if only to pay him back for the Gods’ broken promise of fame and greatness.

They waited for him now, as they had done millennia ago. Now not on a battlefield but in a stadium, waiting not for a warrior but their quarterback. The world had changed, and Achilles had adapted. The crowd erupted in roars of his name and chants of victory the moment he stepped into the arena, helmet in hand and an arm raised in a fist above his head in triumphant fashion. Nostalgic, somehow, in its irony.

He noticed something was off the moment he touched him. Achilles was off balance, his pupils blown, his hands balled too tightly, too uncomfortably, with too little entitlement and too much anticipation. He chalked it up to nervousness, rare but natural anxiety, and took his position right behind Achilles. It would be alright. They couldn’t lose the first game of their senior year, not when Achilles was captain and himself his deputy, one force of nature and one devious mind combined. And they weren’t, not at first. Achilles scored, as expected of him, not easily but steadily. Odysseus believed it was a normal game, a normal day.

But it was not. He heard it, clear as day, sharp as the smell of burnt chestnuts, ringing at the back of his skull, “Menoitides! Menoitides!” And Odysseus watched as _he_ came forward, unmoving, watching a ghost come to life and materialize. There he was, Patroclus, alive and well, younger than Odysseus had last seen him. Broader, too, somehow harder, changed, adapted, just like Achilles had.

His head turned to Achilles. He saw him stare, and stare, and then suddenly he was sure this must have been what was wrong, this reckoning that was about to hit Achilles. The game went on. There was no chance to interfere, no way to help. He was running when he heard Achilles scream -a strangled cry, really, as though it had been torn out of a dying animal- his name, “Patroclus,” and he turned his head at the right moment to see their eyes meet, to feel the shift in the air. He was still staring when their line of defense jumped on Patroclus with skilled technique, when Patroclus' figure disappeared under heavier, leaner figures, and once again he looked just in time to see Achilles bonelessly collapse into the ground.

Before he could grasp it, he’d scrambled to Achilles' side and started shaking him. Achilles felt cold, limp, wet; like he’d just immigrated to the underworld or taken poison, somehow looking sicklier by the second. Odysseus didn’t know if it was a minute or ten or fifteen but when Achilles came back alive it was in feral force, with an abrupt, raspy gasp and panicked flailing, like the aggressive clumsiness of a toddler. Without word or recognition Achilles was suddenly up, racing towards Patroclus' side where he still lay, waiting for the arrival of paramedics. He followed behind, in between the horror of recognition and the unfamiliar surprise of the situation, going back and forth between ideas about what to do. He knew, the moment he’d seen them come eye to eye, that Achilles had now remembered. The horror, the pain, the love, the regret, all coming crashing down and becoming one intoxicating, suffocating bundle of exquisite poison, consuming him like an eternal fire.

Close enough now, he could see Achilles trying to get to Patroclus, touch him in some way, any way at all, like grasping for a lifeline a mile too far away. There was a wall between where Achilles stood and where Patroclus was, a living wall made of Patroclus' teammates, one that relentlessly blocked Achilles' way through his wailing and screaming.

“Patroclus,” he screamed, “Patroclus, Patroclus,” until Odysseus’ ears were ringing. There was a sudden pang, almost tangible, as he realized this looked exactly like the time Patroclus had fallen not temporarily but finally, never to get up again. He remembered how Achilles had wept, the golden strands he’d torn from his own head, his vows of self-damnation, his hands incessantly beating his own chest. He remembered the lament, thick in the air, and he remembered his own indifference, too.

There was a shift in the crowd. Odysseus heard it before seeing it, a weak voice, shouting “I’m fine,” and then shouting louder, stronger, “let’s end this,” and “let’s go,” and many similar things, and then he saw that Patroclus had raised two fists in the air, showing off his unscathed form, riling up the stadium. The dead silence died as the cheers rose and the arena came alive with it, bubbling with wiry anticipation as though they expected bloodshed. His teammates were slapping Patroclus on the back, his coach hurriedly talking to him, just as Odysseus spotted an unruly grin on his face.

He turned his attention back at Achilles. He’d taken off his helmet and stepped back a few paces, standing to the side as if he’d been struck by lightning. Odysseus stepped forward. He held Achilles by the shoulders, firmly enough to shake him, and pulled him back towards himself.

“Achilles,” he called, but the other boy didn’t respond immediately, “Achilles, look at me, look at me _now_.” Achilles turned and looked. Odysseus saw the recognition there, in his eyes, and he also saw the shock, unyielding still.

“I remember you,” Achilles rasped out, “I remember it all.” Odysseus looked at him.

“If you do, take control of yourself.” No response. Odysseus shook him once, harder this time, and then again for good measure. “Do you hear me? No good will come of this.” While Odysseus couldn’t quite fathom why, it worked. Achilles snapped back into attention with a jolt, looking directly into his eyes.

“You remember too?” he asked, not really surprised, more like he was expecting it.

“Yes,” Odysseus said, “I remember.”

The rest of the game was a blur. Odysseus vaguely remembered taking Achilles back to the players’ bench and seating him there, telling their coach he’d hit his head pretty hard and should sit this one out. There was a moment of confusion while everyone questioned how Pelides could need to be benched, quickly dismissed by Odysseus himself, and then shouts for water and ice.

“Is he still there?” asked Achilles, “Is he real? Is he there?” He was trembling.

Odysseus looked over at the other team’s bench where they’d taken Patroclus for evaluation. He was laughing, then talking, moving; definitely breathing, definitely alive. Not in the trance Achilles was now in, horrified and in bliss and wrought with shame at the same time. _Ah_ , he thought. _He doesn’t remember_.

“Why don’t you look for yourself?” he asked Achilles, holding the ice out to him. When it became apparent he wouldn’t take it Odysseus pressed it to his head himself. “He’s right over there.”

Achilles shivered. There was a minute of silence when Odysseus thought he might be looking, followed quickly by something like a whimper.

“I can’t,” he said, “I can’t look at him. I can’t. Please, Odysseus, please, please.” He was shaking so forcefully his teeth were almost clattering, his hands squeezing his arms so tightly they had turned a reddish hue already. _They’re going to think he has a concussion_ , Odysseus thought. They couldn’t have that.

Occasionally his own cold bloodedness shook him. He had this ability, perhaps left from his past life, to look past everything but his ultimate goal. Rather than looking at Patroclus and Achilles now, two boys he’d dragged off to war in their youth with bribery and dishonor, he focused on damage control. He quickly grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby seat and dumped the contents partially over Achilles' head, unaffected by Achilles' hiss of surprise.

“Look at yourself.” he told him. “If you keep being like this they’ll take you away to the hospital, Achilles.” _And then you won’t see him again_ , went unsaid in the air.

That stole Achilles' attention. “No,” he said, “no, I’m alright. I’m fine. I’m fine.” He repeated that, over and over like a mantra, while his body gradually stopped shaking and his breathing evened. Odysseus realized, with one crisis averted, that they were still in a game. He had to go in soon and replace Achilles, which meant he’d have to leave him alone.

“Stay quiet, Achilles.” he said, with uncharacteristic force, “We’ll talk about this later.” He didn’t even know what he would say, not there in that moment. He was a good diplomat, even better at wordplay, but what to say to Achilles now at the crash and burn of his new mortal life, he had no idea. It was unnatural, terrifying and worrying, the state of not knowing.

The whistle blew. He had to get back and he had to do it now. Right as he was about to turn and leave, he felt Achilles grab a hold of his sleeve and look at him with a severity that hadn’t been in his eyes just a few seconds ago, one Odysseus recognized from eons ago.

“He doesn’t know.” Not a question, but a statement. Achilles had understood too that Patroclus hadn’t remembered their old lives yet, that they were the only ones.

“No.” Odysseus said, watching Achilles' eyes drop down, his whole body slacken as his shoulders hunched. The second whistle sounded. Odysseus turned away.

* * *

 He felt like he was swimming. Or maybe he was sinking? Breathing underwater, maybe underground? Something had gotten stuck in his throat. Something was blocking his vision; something was constricting his hearing. He just didn’t know quite what.

Over and over memories assaulted him. The memory of an arrival, when they’d both been so young; the memory of a departure, to a faraway mountain and bliss and happiness and then tender kisses and touches. And then there was another departure, harsh and forced and painful but together, the final departure they’d ever make. There was the memory of stolen moments in a tent, of terror covered in blood and sweat, of hands so gentle soothing him at midnight. The memory, bleeding and aching as if infected, of cradling a cold body for days; the memory of sleeplessness feeling like sleep, of rage and vengeance and carnage. And then there was nothing. There was a void, for a long time, a thousand years or maybe more, and a longing so thick it felt like poisonous honey. And then light, glorious in its finality. 

Except it hadn’t been final. He was alive now, Achilles realized. He took one breath, and another, and another. He put one hand on the left side of his chest, feeling for a heartbeat. Tore a strand of his hair, put his hands on his face; then suddenly, horrified of having hands at all, he turned to examine them. A living, breathing body, his again. A mortal one, unlike his last vessel. New. Old. A mistake.

He didn’t know how long he stared at them. He was in a trance so powerful he doubted it would have matter if a year passed or if ten did as he contemplated it, feeling so ancient now that mortal time did not matter. He wondered, all of a sudden, how it could be possible at all. He had the tentative hope that it might all just be a dream, that he could just wake up in Troy next to Patroclus and live life now with better navigation, but he knew that that couldn’t be. Thetis, he thought, it must have been Thetis. Then he realized with horrified stagnation that he did not call her mother now and he was back in shock, a man who had lived and died and now died again.

The game ended abruptly. He had the sense to realize that they’d lost, that the two teams were now shaking hands and wrapping it all up. Odysseus was leading the team in his absence, smiling in the face of defeat, as if Achilles and he weren’t three thousand years old, as if they hadn’t once shared a battlefield. It was eerie. It was wrong. Everything felt wrong, everything felt lacking, yet everything also felt achingly complete.

Odysseus made his way over to him. With increasing alarm Achilles was realizing that this game, brief and one of its kind, was the only way in which he’d be able to find Patroclus. There was a clarity in his mind now, like a terrifying screech had just been muted. In its place was his own panic, rising every passing second, almost choking him. The possibility, the thought, even the prospect of never finding him again; of living life knowing and not having him, of letting him slip now through his fingers, was entirely impossible. It was that void again, the very same one he’d felt in another world, back when Patroclus hadn’t yet joined him. It was nothingness.

He became aware that Odysseus had a hand on his shoulder. Odysseus had intense eyes, grey like rampant storms, now looking at him quizzically. Achilles was suddenly hyper-aware of everything then, of his eyes and breath and hands, like he was high on godly ambrosia.

“Achilles,” Odysseus was calling, “if you don’t give me a reason to believe you are intact, I will let them take you to the hospital."

No answer. Where were his voice cords? He felt strange, then. He was so intensely aware of Odysseus but had, oddly, no inclination to answer him in any way. No energy to reply, no energy to focus or care or react. It was as if he couldn’t control his body anymore. There was an instinct then, primal and feral and needy, an instinct that had nothing to do with Odysseus.

Before he knew it he had shot up. He was running, faster than he ever had in this lifetime, as though he was still as divine as he had been a lifetime ago. He had felt a desperation for more than three quarters of his life. It transcended this lifetime, he realized; it went back to that void, to that endless longing for Patroclus, that searing question he’d asked himself for centuries, screaming _why, why, why_ to an abyss that would never listen or behold. It was ending now.

Hand met shoulder. It felt right. Immediately something became whole in him. Immediately clarity appeared. Clarity that had never been before, pure like it had been an unsuspecting child in Thetis’ arms. Divine and just and right.

“Patroclus,” he called, a thousand suns’ light shining in his eyes, “you’re called Patroclus.”

Patroclus turned to him. There was no recognition on his face, only curiosity beneath slightly hidden mirth. A raised eyebrow, a bemused voice, sweeter than anything Achilles had tasted and more welcome than anything had ever been in eons.

“Yeah?” Patroclus asked, arms crossed over his chest, “And you’re Pelides, right?”

Suddenly it was as if he’d gone boneless, nerveless, voiceless. He waited for his drive to come back but it had deserted him now, nowhere to be found in his overloaded mind, while he was left defenseless facing his greatest frontier. Patroclus was looking at him now, an eyebrow slightly cocked up, no doubt getting impatient. What would Odysseus do, he found himself asking, more confused than ever.

“Can I have your phone number?” he asked, regretting it as he said it. There was the weight of a divine fate on him; the weight of three millennia, of death and love and grief, the bliss of oblivion, yet that was all that he managed to ask.

Patroclus looked startled the first moment. Gradually he got a grin, quite full of intrigue Achilles realized, as he shifted backwards to admire him.

“Sure,” Patroclus said, “Let me get a pen.”

Then he had tentative hope. Nothing was circulating in his mind now, like it was a ghost town newly dead to the world, but there was hope. He’d see Patroclus again, he realized. Comfort rushed over him suddenly, bringing a languid ease that made him almost dizzy. He was aware, then, of Patroclus shouting for someone to bring him a pen, right as he was about to open his mouth to say thank you.

“Hector!” Patroclus shouted. “Hector, can you pass me the board pen? Hey, come on!” Patroclus was laughing at something. A joke, Achilles realized. A joke Hector had made.

A second passed. Then two, three, four, five, before Hector arrived. He was only partially aware of a pen being pressed against his skin, scribbling numbers. Numbers that seconds ago had been so important, numbers that now looked bland and treacherous.

He stared at Hector now. Blue met green. There was recognition. There was hatred, and then anger, and then hatred again. He remembered. So did Achilles. Then Patroclus left with Hector. He heard laughter, lighthearted. The lights of the stadium dimmed and turned off.

And then there was only nothingness.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback much appreciared :) Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
